So he’s leaving the house with a fifteen-hour window. It should be plenty of time. To find the girl, incapacitate her, and find out what kind of bitch he was working with. Spend a good six to eight hours celebrating his return to freedom, reaffirming the type of man that he is. To drink in the cocktail of sex and power and to know that he is, once again, all man. Afterward, if she behaves, he’ll swing back by. Turn off the oven altogether. Let the guy sit there in safety until he is found. And if he dies? Starves to death there on the floor? So be it. Life is never as precious as when it is threatened. We all need a little death in our lives to remind us to keep living.
The beauty is, neither of them will ever know who he is. The hacker is clueless; the boy never saw him, and the girl, if left alive, will only remember his mask. It will be the perfect execution, performed with intelligence and planning. Another first for him. He should have taken control of these activities a long time ago. More work but more empowering. This girl will be sweeter than every one before her. This will also be the first time he will use leverage over torture. It will be interesting to see the difference a reluctantly willing participant makes.
Of course, if the plan fails, if she doesn’t submit, then he won’t return to Jeremy at all. Should she fight, be stubborn, fail to treat him with respect? He’ll let the man die on the principle of it. Stay with her, let her watch the news and crumble before he fucks her to death. Her cooperation. Her attitude. That will determine whether Jeremy Pacer burns to death or not. Whether he feels gracious or not. Fifteen hours will give him enough time. Plenty.
Soon. Everything he has waited for, soon. He gets in, starts up the engine, the heat blowing out lukewarm at first blast. He digs in his pocket, pulls out her address, and reprograms his GPS. Six miles; fifteen minutes away. So close. Hopefully, it will be in a nicer area than this middle-suburbia dump. Adrenaline flowing, he turns around, heads left, then right, then left. Gets on the freeway and drives through downtown, the tall buildings soon dropping off, the cityscape turning cheaper and cheaper until he is in what can only be described as the slums of Tulsa. Slums. Not what he was expecting from the bubbly brunette with the nice bedroom. No campus in sight. Frowning, he comes to a stop at her address, pulling off into a metered spot and checking the address. Looks left, at the structure, a worn fa?ade with no balconies, one long box with at least six levels of small windows sporadically scattered on its surface. The entire building seems to sag, as if holding up the weight of its floors is a losing battle. A worn awning on its front displays its name, in plastic letters that have seen better days. MULHOLLAND OAKS APARTMENTS. A phone number is below it, along with a giant star advertising weekly rentals starting at $199.
This can’t be right. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the hacker lied. But he’s seen the legwork. Seen the proof. This is, to the best of the hacker’s extensive knowledge, her address. But why would a woman with her level of income live in a tenement building? He rolls down the window, puts the car in park, and looks out again, without the obstruction of tinted window glass. Notes what appears to be a drug deal going on one car over. Glances at the building again. Dingy and dark, it squats on the piece of land like a fat hamster someone forgot to put back in the cage. Some windows are covered in newspaper, one in cardboard, and there isn’t a car on the street that has matching hubcaps. Tries to imagine her parking on this street and walking in. She has to make enough to live somewhere else. Hell, he alone had dropped an easy grand on her. Maybe it’s drugs, she snorts her income away. Or has some version of a virtual pimp who takes all of her profits. He stares at the building, doesn’t like it one bit. His visions of tying her down, spending his time fucking her every way but normal… those fantasies had been orchestrated on clean sheets, a place with running water. Not this Dumpster of existence. He sighs, rolling up the window. Adjusts the settings of his seat until he is fully reclined, grateful for the tinted windows, his eyes on the front of the building, flicking once to the locks, to ensure their safety position. If the boy’s neighborhood was rough, this one was Compton. He leaves the engine running, ready to make a quick departure should a street punk decide to try for his car. He’ll wait. Wait till the sun finishes setting. Wait a few more hours, till she is sure to be tucked away inside, getting ready for bed. Then. Then he’ll strike. He rubs his jaw and allows himself to smile.
It is almost here.
CHAPTER 85
THEY SAY IDLE hands are the devil’s workshop. For me, it is not my hands, it is my mind. Without distraction, it dives into dark places it shouldn’t go. Places that make little boys scream and psychopaths celebrate. I’ve spent years avoiding those places. But now, as I sit in the dark and wait for this man? I open the cage and let my idle mind wander free.
Butt on the ground, my back against a box of Jenny Craig cardboard entrees, I run my mind over the plan and hope that I am not wrong. Hope that he is on his way, and that I can act out this stockpile of fantasies. The law says that if my home is entered, that I have the right to defend myself. Self-defense. A beautiful word that opens a world of possibilities. Yeah, let’s call this self-defense. Not that a defense will be needed. I don’t plan on getting cops involved.